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0\iv Pegt (Greetings 
to |Sou 

CHRISTMAS! And the bells are clanging! Christmas! And 
the goose is hanging high and joy's abroad! Christmas is 
the happy season! Though the weather may be freezin', 
human 'hearts are thawed! Here we see the ancient codger 
sporting like an artful dodger with the laughing kids; here we see 
the haughty chappie smiling broadly and as happy as the katydids. 
Every one has shed his sorrow, dropped his burden till tomorrow, 
dropped the world and care; Christmas is no time for sadness — all 
the world is full of gladness, each should have his share. 

Therefore, if you deal in lumber, let your business rest and 
slumber, till the day is o'er; think no more of lath and plaster; frolic 
fast and frolic faster till you split the floor. Cast aside all thoughts 
of timber; show the folks your legs are limber, and your soul un- 
spoiled; show your heart has not been toughened, show your nature's 
not been roughened, by the years you've toiled. Let no thoughts of 
sash and siding your attention be dividing on this day of grace; help 
to fill with glee your shanty, till grandmother, sister, auntie, bless 
your cheer-up face. 

Christmas! When the reindeer travel, and Old Santa scratches 
gravel, making good his dates! Men who don't get good and mellow 
when is due that brave old fellow, surely are cheap skates. When the 
Christmas music's rollin', and the children's socks are swollen, we 
should all be young; young as when we watched and waited for 
those reindeer, rapid-gaited, by the night wind stung. We can be as 
young in spirit as the kids, or pretty near it, if we only try, though 
our heads are gray and dusty and our joints are worn and rusty, and 
no longer spry. Then when Christmas time is ended and we to our 
tasks have wended, we shall bear away something of the youth we 
captured when the whole world was enraptured with its Christmas day. 



THE CURTIS COMPANIES 

CURTISBROS.&CO. CURTIS-Y ALE-HOWARD CO. 

CLINTON. IOWA MINNEAPOLIS, MINN. 

CURTlSiYALECO. CURTIS, BOOT HA BENTUEYCO. 

WAUSAU, WIS. OKLAHOMA CITY, OKLA. 

PITTSBURGH, PA. CURTIS DOOR A SASH CO. 

CURTIS SASH &. DOOR CO. CHlCASO, ILL. 

SIOUX CITY, IOWA CURTIS DETROIT CO. 

CURTIS. TOWLE A PAINE CO. DETROIT, MICH. 

LINCOLN, NEBR CURTIS DAYTON CO. 

TOPEKA, KAN. DAYTON, OHIO 




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Lumber Lyrics 

By 

Walt Mason 




As they have 
appeared in 
Curtis Service 




Reprinted in booklet form by the Curtis Service Bureau, Clinton. Iowa, for 
the Curtis Companies and their Good Friends in the retail lumber trade. 



Copyright, 1919, by Curtis Service Bureau 
Clinton, Iowa. All rights reserved. 



4^^ 



C1A563368 



Printed by 

Stewart-Simmons Press 

Waterloo, Iowa 



Vt 



Contents 



Walt Mason— Everybody's Poet 6 

Lumber Lyrics 8 

Trees jl 

Spring,is Coming 12 

Knowledge is Power 12 

A Longing | J 

Good Signs ^ 

Advertising ^ 

Going After Them ' 16 

Suggestion 16 

The Pioneers 17 

October Days 18 

Housing the Help 19 

Classy Homes 20 

Necessary Goods 21 

The Mixer 21 

Stairways 22 

All the Time 23 

•Houses Scarce 24 

Floors 25 

Doors 25 

Building a House 26 

The Gladsome Spiel 27 

Personality 28 

Planting the Tree 29 

The Shoppers 29 

The New Year 30 



Walt Mason 

— Everybody's Poet 

WALT MASON is a poet and the world knows it. He 
is read by more people than any other living writer. 
His prose rhymes are published in 200 daily news- 
papers with an aggregate circulation of about 12 millions. 
Walt says his only claim on the nation's gratitude is that he 
does not go about the country reading from his "works." 
Indeed, he doesn't have to, for his writings are read with 
avidity by hosts of people. 

Walt Mason lives in Emporia, Kansas, most of the time, 
but spends his summers in Estes Park, Colorado. He does 
nothing but write prose rhymes. And at this job he is one of 
the hardest working men living. He is probably the only 
poet who makes his living solely by the sweat of his brow. 

Many people have wondered what Walt Mason gets for 
his contributions to Curtis Service. This is rather a per- 
sonal question but it is sufficient to say that he gets enough 
money from work of this kind so that his monthly income 
has totalled as high as |875.00. At any rate, this was the 
iigure he gave out in an interview in a Kansas City paper in 
1914, and like everything else, prose rhymes weren't as high 
then as they are now. 

As Mr. Mason himself explains, he was never a lumber 
dealer, though he has tried to sell everything from hardware 
to hogs. 

How, then, can he write lumber lyrics that hit such a 
responsive chord in every lumber dealer's mind? The Lord 
knows. He was born that way. His prose rhymes "get 
under your hide" and under every other lumber dealer's 
hide, because Walt Mason has an interest in you and your 
fellow human beings. 

Walt Mason was born in Columbus, Ontario, May 4th, 
1862. He was the fifth of six sons of poor parents. When 
Walt was four years old his father was accidentally killed. 
After his mother died, when he was fifteen, he went to Port 
Hope, Ontario, and worked in a hardware store for $2.50 a 
week, boarding himself. He soon forsook the hardware busi- 
ness, in 1880, and crossed Lake Ontario into New York State, 
where he hoed beans until he decided that there wasn't any 
sense in hoeing beans. 

"Arm in arm with the star of empire," he took his course 
westward, stopping in Ohio and in Illinois, and then in St. 



Louis. There he wrote "some stuff" for a humorous weekly 
called The Hornet, which obtained for him a position at 
$5.00 per week doing everything from writing gems of 
thought to sweeping the floors. 

When The Hornet went broke, Mason continued west- 
ward and worked for three years as a hired man in Kansas. 
He became disgusted with the work and managed to get a 
position with the Leavenworth Times. From there he floated 
to the Atchison Globe, and was off and on connected with 
newspapers in a dozen cities. At last, William Allen White, 
publisher of the Emporia Gazette offered him a position. 

The Gai^ette always printed on its first page an item of 
local interest with a border around it, called a "star head." 
One day, the city editor was shy the necessary item and 
asked Walt to write something to fill the space. He wrote a 
little prose rhyme asking people to go to church next day, 
which was Sunday. The rhyme attracted attention, and on 
Monday he wrote another one, and a little later on, Walt and 
the "star head" became a feature of the Gazette. This was 
the origin of the prose poem and that was when Walt Mason 
came to himself — at the age of forty-five. 

The rhymes of Walt Mason have had a marked influence 
on American literature. Their unusual character have made 
the "highbrows" wonder how to class them. His rhymes 
seem to be neither prose nor poetry, though it must be re- 
membered that the poems of the classics were written in line- 
less form, and therefore, that Mason's stuff can't be con- 
demned simply because it isn't printed like verse. 

Mason used to write for a great many house organs, but 
today Curtis Service, for which he has been writing since 
the third issue of the publication, in September, 1913, is one 
of the few on his list. 

Walt Mason believes that poets are born and not made. 
At any rate, he says that they must have an ear for rhyme. 
The manner in which he sends in his contributions to Curtis 
Service shows that he doesn't chew up many pencils paring 
down his rhymes and changing them about so that their feet 
will toe the mark. 

Though he is a poet he has but one eccentricity: he is fat. 
He tried out a large number of eccentricities, because he knew 
all poets had to have some, but finally decided upon being fat 
as the one with fewest drawbacks and the least inconvenient. 

Who's Who says he married Ella Foss of Wooster, Ohio, 
in 1893, and that he is a Republican in politics and a Uni- 
tarian in religion. His twelve million readers all acclaim him 
as a "regular guy." 



Lumber Lyrics 

THE prose poems appearing in this little uook 
have been written by me for the Curtis Com- 
panies during the past few years, and, judging 
from the many letters 1 have received from lumber 
dealers all over the country, they took kindly to the 
little efi'usions; and often these correspondents have 
asked me where and when 1 had experience in the 
lumber business. 

I have had no experience in that line, except as a 
customer at the lumber yards. I have bought a lot of 
boards and such things in my time, and when I was 
buying them, or waiting for my change, I looked 
around. Anybody who looks around, and who doesn't 
wear blinders, observes many things in the course of a 
lifetime. 

1 have always been interested in the things around 
me and close to me. I have an insatiable curiosity; I 
want to know all the facts about anything I am inter- 
ested in. When I go to a lumber yard to buy the ma- 
terials for a cupboard or a coffin, I ask a million ques- 
tions. 1 want to know where the boards grew, and who 
harvested them, and how they were prepared for the 
consumer, and all about them; and, as a rule, lumber 
men know their own trade, and can give any reasonable 
amount of information. 1 have been asking questions 
all my days; and, having a good memory, very few 
facts get away from me. 

And so I am prepared to write a rhyme about any- 
thing at an hour's notice. If I am to write about a 
steam engine, or a whale, or the north pole, 1 usually 
do it without consulting any books; at various times I 
have questioned people about steam engines, and 
whales, and north poles, and the things they told me 
are on file in my memory. 

So with these poems. They have been suggested by 



things I have heard lumber men say, perhaps day be- 
fore yesterday, perhaps twenty years ago. 

There are many people who will tell you I am not a 
poet, and 1 am not going to quarrel with them about it. 
The true poet, in the estimation of the highbrows, is 
one who can so befuddle a subject with words that an 
ordinary citizen can't tell what he is driving at. 1 
have never had an ambition to be that kind of a poet. 
Really, I can be as cryptic as any of them, and can 
write things that would give you a sick headache, try- 
ing to understand them; but few people enjoy sick 
headaches. 

1 have never been interested in Greek gods or 
Lethean rivers, or things remote, either in time or dis- 
tance. Most of my life I have been associated with 
people who worked hard for a living, and I have done 
all kinds of manual labor myself. It is with such peo- 
ple, and such varieties of labor, that my verses deal. 

The lumber yard on the corner is of more enduring 
interest to me than the Field of the Cloth of Gold, on 
which sundry kings played to the gallery long ago. 
Every time the lumberman sells a wagonload of his 
goods he is contributing to the general welfare, as well 
as to his own; and this fact seems more important to 
me than any story treating of the doings of Ulysses or 
any other fabled gent. So I write of lumber and let the 
gods slide. 



O^^tuCf <^H^U>^^ 



H 



Lumber Lyrics 
Walt Mason 



TREES 

MOST every tree is made of wood; the best ones are 
remote from cities; and in their cheerful neighbor- 
hood the birds keep singing ragtime ditties. Beneath 
their limbs the children play and swing within their 
leafy border, upon the long, bright summer day, when picnic 
parties are in order. And now and then the poets come, to 
eulogize the forest spirit, and you can hear their thought works 
hum, like auto wheels, or pretty near it. And it may chance, 
upon a day, that farmers from adjacent ranches, will bring a 
rope along this way, and hang an agent from the branches. 

Now comes the woodman with his ax, and he selects some 
forest beauty; then through its noble trunk he whacks — it is 
to him a thing of duty. He has to feed his eighteen kids, he 
has to clothe his wife and auntie; he has to buy them pies and 
lids, and put new paint upon his shanty. And thus the forest 
giant falls, there's none to shield it or deliver; now other men 
in overalls, will float it down some rushing river. And then 
through loud and busy mills the good old tree in fragments 
dashes, and makes its bow as doors and sills, as scantling, joists 
and window sashes. 

It's strange to labor at a desk and think that it, all carved 
and oaken, one time was standing, picturesque, am^id a solitude 
unbroken; once in the forest dark and dim, these pigeonholes 
and doodads rested; this drawer was once a swaying limb, on 
which the robin sang and nested. 

I sit upon my swivel chair, and meditate upon its hist'ry; 
these rungs and legs once waved in air, in all the strange 
primeval myst'ry. 

This stool on which I milk my cow, this club with which 1 
swat the heifers, though they are quite prosaic now, once 
rustled in the morning zephyrs; once they had leaves, and in 
the dawn they sang the world-old song of wonder; and in the 
dusk when day was gone, they saw the smiling lovers under. 

This maple slat with which I soak my Willie when he gets 
too funny, and on his daddy plays a joke, came from some 
woodland sweet and sunny. 

And thus in every lumber yard there's food for pleasant 
meditation; a plank inspires the modern bard, and tunes him 
up to beat creation. 



Lumber Lyria 
Walt Mason 



SPRING COMING 

WINTER winds were round us snorting, for a weary 
while; now that Spring's this way cavorting, we 
should wear a smile. 

Tempests, storms and kindred friskers lashed us 
with a whip, froze our noses and our whiskers, gave us all 
the grip. 

Nights were cold and days were freezing, cheerless was the 
sky; we were coughing, whooping, sneezing, till we wished 
to die. 

Now the winter's quit its prancing, it's an also ran; and 
the gentle Spring, advancing, should encourage man. 

When the north winds, blood congealers, ripped along the 
earth, 'tisn't strange if lumber dealers strangers were to mirth. 

For there was no rush or clamor in the building trade; and 
the rusty saw and hammer on the shelf were laid. 

But, since balmy spring is coming, and old winter's canned, 
sounds of building will be humming over all the land. 

When the skies are blue and sunny, and the birdlets sing, 
people will be spending money, as they do each spring. 

They'll be building gorgeous houses, all along the pike, 
shelter for their steeds and cowses, fences and the like. 

So let glee and mellow laughter fill your lumber store, as 
you hand out joist and rafter, scantling, sash and door. 

KNOWLEDGE IS POWER 

WHEN I go into someone's store, to buy a nickel's 
worth or more, some questions 1 may spring; for I 
have an inquiring mind; all kinds of facts I like to 
find, and place them on a string. I ask the grocer if 
his tea was grown beside the Zuyder Zee, or down along the 
Po; and I'm disgusted when he sighs, and claws his whiskers 
and replies, "1 really do not know." 

I hold that every business man should follow up the good 
old plan and know his stock in trade; the wise old grocer al- 
ways knew just where his shredded codfish grew, and where his 
prunes were made. The wise old clothier knows that wool is 
never gathered from a bull, and tells his patrons so: that mer- 
chant wearies by his acts, who answers, when you ask for facts, 
"I'm sure I do not know." 

We have a lumber man named Chee; I asked him, "On 
what sort of tree do lath and shingles grow?" He said, "We 



Lumber Lyria 
Walt Masor, 



have the shingles there, and where they grew I do not care, 
and neither do I know." This answer filled me with amaze; 
he'd handled shingles all his days, and knew not whence they 
came; he'd played his hand for forty years, since he was wet 
behind the ears, and didn't know the game. 

We have a lumber man named Dumm; I asked him, 
"Whence do shingles come — oh, whither, why and whence?" 
He said, "I'rn always glad to tell the history of things I sell, 
regardless of expense. The shingle trees," I hear him say, "are 
only found at Hudson's Bay, and they have stately shapes; 
the shingles, which are long and slim, profusely grow on every 
limb, in bunches, much like grapes. The natives harvest them 
in March when they are firm and stiff with starch, and dry 
them in the sun; then they remove the outer husk — which has 
a gentle smell of musk— and thrash them, every one. Then 
they're sandpapered, piece by piece, and boiled six weeks in 
walrus grease, and smoked, like any ham; and if there's any 
more you'd know, about the way the shingles grow, just ask 
me — here I am." 

I've admiration and respect for one whose knowledge is 
correct, so I am strong for Dumm; no matter what you ask 
that guy, he always has a prompt reply — and he makes busi- 
ness hum! Men should be ready with a spiel about the goods 
in which they deal, excuses won't suffice; our estimate is always 
low of men who never seem to know a thing except the price. 

A LONGING 

I'D like to deal in lumber, and sell, for honest mon, good 
shingles without number, and scantling by the ton; I'd 
like to hand out timber to patrons, all day long; the 
moulding, thin and limber, the pillar firm and strong; for 
when a man is selling such things, which hit the spot, to build 
the stately dwelling, the store and humble cot, he feels that he 
is helping to push the world along, and so we hear him yelping 
a sweet and joyous song. 

I'd like to deal in lumber, for then I'd have a hand in 
rousing from its slumber, the tired and stagnant land; when- 
e'er I sold a package, and put away the dimes, I'd say, "I'm 
building trackage, toward the better times!" Pride's blush 
would then be mantling my bulging brow upon; and when I 
sold a scantling I'd help the old world on. 

I'd help to build the silo, which fills a pressing need, in 
which the rural Milo heaps up his juicy feed; I'd help to build 



Lumber Lyncs 
Walt Mason 



the cottage in which the Newlyweds consume their home-made 
pottage, with sunshine in their heads; I'd help to build the 
palace where Croesus counts his chink, and hits the golden 
chalice when he would have a drink. I'd help to build the 
cities, where busy people dwell; it is a thousand pities 1 have 
no boards to sell! 

I want to have a hand in all good things that's going on; 
I'd hate to be astandin' two idle feet upon! I'd hate to deal 
in moonshine, or take the shining plunk for goods which have 
the prune shine of gold bricks or of junk. You'll find some 
merchants funny throughout this blooming earth; I'd not 
enjoy my money, unless I gave its worth; unless the goods I 
deal in had useful end and aim, though coin came in a-peltin', 
I'd not enjoy the game. 

I'd like to deal in lumber, in lime and lath, by jings, thus 
helping to encumber the world with handsome things; I'd like 
to have a finger in every worthy pie, I'd like my name to linger 
behind me when I die. The lumber dealers figure in every use- 
ful scheme, in everything that's bigger than is an empty dream. 



GOOD SIGNS 

WHEN farmers bring their teams to town, and then 
drive home again, their heavy wagons loaded down 
with boards and joists, why, then, it is a sign that 
things are well, the goose is hanging high; and you 
may safely dance and yell, for better times are nigh. 

All farmers who are safe and sane like handsome cribs and 
barns, and for old shacks that let in rain they do not give three 
darns; but when the hogs are dying off, of cholera or mumps, 
the farmer, with affliction filled, looks on the old shacks near, 
and says, "I can't afford to build until some other year." 

But when the hogs are feeling gay, and everything serene, 
and all the oats and corn and hay present a healthy green, he 
hitches up old Kate and Dick and journeys off to town, and 
then comes homeward pretty quick, with lumber loaded down. 
And when I see the wagons drill along the country road, each 
one a-creaking, loud and shrill, beneath its lumber load, 1 know 
the country's on the boom, and things will hum once more; 
and any man who talks of gloom is just a misfit bore. 

Some people read the Wall Street news to see which way 
we head, and some keep tab on Henry Clews, to see if we are 
dead; some follow up what Congress does, and think therein 
they'll find the signs that business will buzz, or maybe fall be- 



Lumber Lyrics 
Walt Mason 



hind. And some are making frequent notes upon the tariff 
law, to see if it will get our goats, and dislocate our jaw. 

But when 1 want to know the truth, about our future fate, 
1 pass up all such things, forsooth, and sit on my front gate, 
and watch the farmers going by, upon their way from town, 
and if with lumber piled up high, their carts are loaded down, 1 
know prosperity's on top, good times are here, you bet; and 1 
go forth and 'whip a cop and chase a suffragette. Oh, when the 
farmers spend their hoards for lumber, we enthuse; the 
granger's wagonload of boards tells more than Henry Clews. 



ADVERTISING 

TELL me not in mournful numbers, with the air of 
critics wise, that the retail lumber dealer's not the one 
to advertise. 

"Let the shoe and grindstone dealers fill the papers 
with their ads, let the pharmacists be spielers for their pills 
and liver pads; let the dry goods merchant merry sing in print 
his cheerful tunes, let the boatman boom his wherry, let the 
grocer boost his prunes. But when men are buying shingles 
they will seek you in your lair, and will need no prose or jingles 
to induce their going there." 

Thus I heard the mossback speaking as he sadly wagged 
his ears, and his jaws and lungs were squeaking with the rust 
of many years. But I knew his talk was twaddle that would 
fool no modern guys; for it's true that all men waddle to the 
stores that advertise. 

Why should men who deal in lumber make no bid for larger 
trade? Why should they sit 'round and slumber, slumber 
sweetly in the shade? If an ad will bring new patrons to the 
gas works or the bank, if it sells new gowns to matrons, why 
won't it sell a plank? If an ad will bring new buyers to the 
corner ginseng store, to the man who deals in plyers, why won't 
it sell a door? 

In our town there is a dealer, selling lumber all the year, 
and he is the boss appealer to the public's grateful ear. Every 
day his little sermon in the paper shows its face; when on 
building folks determine, they go chasing to his place. 

Keep your name before the public, keep your business 
house in view, and when men would build a steeple, they will 
surely think of you. Advertising pays, you bet you! They 
who say "No" are absurd. Never let your town forget 3'ou— 
make your name a household word. 



15 



Lumber Lyrics 
Walt Mason 



GOING AFTER THEM 

OUR lumber man, McMellow, is quite a hustling fellow, 
he's ever after trade. He says, "I've faith in jumping 
around for biz, and humping — I've always found it 
paid. I think," remarks McMellow, "that there's a 
streak of yellow in any gloomy lad, who spends his time com- 
plaining, against the breeching straining, and says that trade 
is bad. 

"My trade is what I make it; and I could blamed soon 
break it, if I had doleful dumps, but when I find things drag- 
ging, I set my brains a-wagging and do some fancy humps. 

"Today I heard John Abel intends to build a stable, about 
eight miles from town; as there was nothing doing, and no 
excitement brewing, to hold this village down, I thought I'd go 
and meet him, and to some language treat him, and sell a little 
bill; and right there I enrolled him a customer and sold him 
the roof-tree and the sill. 

"Keep busy is my motto; I have a small tin auto that 
scoots along with vim; and when I hear some granger intends 
to build a manger, I burn the road to him. The people see me 
scooting, they see me skally-hooting, mile after breezy mile; 
they say, 'He is so busy, he fairly makes us dizzy — we kind o' 
like his style.' 

"And when they want some woodwork — and want the best 
of good work, which is the Curtis kind — or joists or lath or 
siding, to me they come a'riding — that's business, do ye mind?" 

You never see him slouching, you never see him grouching, 
or talking of despair; he always keeps things humming, he's 
always up a-coming, his hind feet in the air. 

SUGGESTION 

SOME merchants are so all-fired dumb, you wonder how 
they ever come to sell the stufi" they have in store, and 
keep the sheriff from the door. Old Binkson is a lot 
that way; he seldom has a word to say. I ask him for 
a pound of lime; he wraps it up, and all the time, he wears a 
tragic air of doom, and sheds an atmosphere of gloom. He 
never chats, he never spiels, nor jumps up high and cracks his 
heels. He isn't grouchy or unstrung; he never learned to wag 
his tongue. 

Oh, silence is a golden thing, when 'tisn't worked too hard, 
by jing But none of us will stand up strong for men who 



Lumber Lyrics 
Walt Mason 



gabble all day long, and elocute a thousand miles in fifty-seven 
varied styles. The dealer who is prone to talk until you hear 
him round a block, is worse than t'other kind of bird, who's 
never known to spring a word. 

But if you've scantling you would sell, you ought to boost 
it wisely well, and if a gent should buy a plank, to build him- 
self a dipping tank, you might suggest ere home he speeds, that 
you have other things he needs. 

1 called on Lumber Dealer Gaff, to buy a shingle and a half. 
He put my purchase in a sack, and wrapped a string around 
and back, and as he toiled, in manner gay, he talked to pass 
the time away. 

"The farmers now, in busy troops, are building stately 
chicken coops; the winter soon will hit the road, and hens 
must have a warm abode, or they won't lay their luscious eggs, 
but stand around on frozen legs." 

And that recalled the fact to me that 1 had hens, some 
ninety-three, and ere I left that lumber store, I bought a wagon 
load or more, of stuff to build a chicken shed; it's standing 
now, all painted red. 

And that's the way big sales are made, and that is how men 
build up trade. Talk corn cribs at the proper time, or prove a 
silo is sublime, but in an incidental strain, and not as though 
you gladly sprain your conscience — which I hope is hale — in 
eagerness to get the kale. 

Suggestion is a noble art; the wise man gets it down by 
heart. 



THE PIONEERS 

OUR fathers, in the bygone years, were bold and hardy 
pioneers. They cleared the country of their foes, and 
made it blossom as the rose. On prairies vast, by 
lonely lakes, they scrapped with Injuns and with 
snakes, and whipped the large, fat grizzly bear, and chased the 
groundhog to its lair. 

When first they cleared their patch of ground, the pioneers 
felt they were bound to build thereon some sort of shacks, so 
they got busy with the ax. How dire and gloomy was their 
plight! There was no lumber yard in sight; they could not 
take a bunch of cash, and buy their windows, doors and sash: 
they could not seek the haunts of trade, and buy a house 
already made. The modern man, who plans to build a house, 
with children to be filled, can to the lumber palace go, and 



Lumber Lyrics 
Walt Mason 



spend a little roll of dough, and get his boards, all planed and 
grooved, so slick they couldn't be improved. And in a very 
little while he builds a house that's quite in style. 

But it was different, my dears, with those old hardy pio- 
neers; they humped themselves like busy bees, and with their 
axes chopped down trees, and of the branches made them 
bare, and chopped and chopped, and made them square. And 
as they toiled around the boles, the Injuns shot them full of 
holes. How would you like to build a shack, and have an 
arrow in your back? 

But still they toiled on tireless shanks, and fashioned doors 
of three-inch planks, and made their windows, high and broad, 
all out of plumb and wapperjawed. Oh, did they sing, or did 
they swear, when interrupted by a bear, which sized them up as 
juicy food, and chased them through the lonely wood? Oh, 
did they laugh, or did they wail, when wildcats got upon their 
trail? For once an hour their labors ceased; they had to scrap 
with man or beast. It's hard to work 'neath such a strain; it 
frets the heart and jars the brain. 

Just ponder o'er those early shacks, all built with rusty saw 
and ax; they once were viewed with lofty pride, in them our 
fathers lived and died. How would you like it if you had to 
build log cabins, like your dad? You'd surely think it pretty 
hard — you'd yearn for some good lumber \'ard. 



OCTOBER DAYS 

IT is a nipping, eager air; the signs of Fall are everywhere. 
The coal man smiles, the ice man grieves; the trees have 
shed their summer leaves; the cockleburs and other 
flowers that brighten all the summer hours, are lying 
dead; the birds have flown to lands where blizzards are 
unknown. 

The farmer sits around indoors, when he has done his even- 
ing chores, and finished all the daily grind, and talks of plans 
he has in mind. 

"Amanda Jane," he tells his wife, the faithful partner of his 
life, "the time has come when we can build; the strongbox is 
with rubles filled. It hasn't been the best of years, but I have 
sold a bunch of steers, and, too, a galaxy of swine, and quite a 
wad of dough is mine. We'll build the house we long have 
planned, with modern things on every hand, with weather strips 
and folding doors, and walnut stairs and rosewood floors." 
"Now, Hiram, you are safe and sane," remarks the glad 



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Amanda Jane. "For twenty weary years, alack, we've lived in 
this old dingy shack; we've built fine shelter for the cows, and 
sheds palatial for the sows, and gorgeous stables for the mules, 
and lived in this old shack, like fools. Now let us have a 
dwelling fine, and not a dugout twelve by nine. And, Hiram, 
bear this thought in mind: When buying, do not go it blind. 
I've talked with women who have homes which are for beauty 
simply pomes, and they have told me many a time, that cheap 
John woodwork is a crime. With it your house will be a frost, 
regardless of the roll it cost." 

"Don't worry, wife," old Hiram sighs; "methinks you'll find 
your husband wise; I've had that matter long in mind, and 1 
shall buy the Curtis kind." 



HOUSING THE HELP 

1 TRIED to sell a load of slabs to Charles Augustus Clar- 
ence Dabbs. He owns a farm some nine miles long, and 
twice as wide — unless I'm wrong; I am not sure about its 
size, but it is big, or some one lies. 

"I cannot blow myself for slabs," said Charles Augustus 
Clarence Dabbs; "with forty kinds of grief I'm filled, I'm not 
in shape this year to build. When one is loaded to the ears 
with cares and woes, and doubts and fears, he's in no mood to 
talk of planks, or building stunts, you bet your shanks. 

"The government," said Mr. Dabbs, "is on the farmers 
keeping tabs; it looks to us to raise the wheat, that half the 
blooming world shall eat. It looks to us for corn and hay, and 
succotash and beans and whey. We farmers want to raise the 
stuff; we surely have desire enough; we have the land, we have 
the mules, we have the seed, we have the tools, but where in 
thunder shall we get the laborers, to toil and sweat? We can- 
not keep men on the farm; the life appears to have no charm. 
I need a half a dozen hands to cultivate my fertile lands; I'd 
give them work the whole year round, if men of muscle could 
be found." 

"It is a problem old and hoar," I said, and sat down on the 
floor. "It is a problem that will grow more frightful as the sad 
years go, unless you farmers realize that laborers are human 
guys. They want to live a normal life, each with his fireside 
and his wife, and not be packed in garrets bare up forty miles 
of winding stair. 

"If 1 were farming, Mr. Dabbs, instead of selling rosewood 
slabs, I'd build some nifty little shacks, to house my toiling 



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Walt Mason 



Jills and Jacks. I'd say to men I hired, '\ou see, you do not 
have to live with me; you have your house in which to dwell, 
a garden and a cow and well, a rooster and a Dorking hen, 
which things appeal to honest men.' 

"When you take up that sort of thing, your men will staj' 
with you, by jing." 

Then Mr. Dabbs sat down by me. "There may be truth 
in that," said he. "I'm blamed if I don't try it out, so let us 
see some plans, old scout." 

We figured there for half a day, and when the patron drove 
away, he hauled a load of joists and jambs, and seemed as 
chipper as nine clams. 

CLASSY HOMES 

THE barber who is bald as blazes can't sell me tonic for 
my hair, and all his fine and ringing phrases strike me 
as merely heated air. The tailor who is looking shabby 
can't sell me clothes, howe'er he tries; his eloquence 
seems vain and flabby, his course of conduct is not wise. 

The jeweler, whose watch is gaining, or losing, seven hours 
a day, might spend a week or two explaining his wondrous skill 
— I'd go my way. 

If I were selling battle-axes, I'd see my own the best in 
town, as slick and clean and smooth as wax is, a thing of fair 
and wide renown. 

One lumber man is always telling what kind of homes the 
folks should build, and he lives in a rocky dwelling, with bar- 
gain counter fixtures filled. And men who listen to his spieling, 
remark, "Why don't you build, yourself? Your home is punk, 
from floor to ceiling, from kitchen sink to pantry shelf." 

The lumber man, more than all others, should show his 
faith in what he sells, should demonstrate, to men and broth- 
ers, that his own home is wearing bells. Then he can say to 
John and Alice, who think of putting up a home, "Come out 
and see my little palace, examine it, from porch to dome. Of 
goodly points it has a number, I think it good and up to date; 
it shows what one can do with lumber, if he has got his head 
on straight." 

The workman who is always fussing can't ply for me the 
monkey wrench; the preacher who is always cussing can't lead 
me to the mourner's bench. 

The lumberman whose home is rocky can't tell me what I 
ought to build; though he be eloquent and talky, the force of 
all he says is killed. 



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Walt Mason 



NECESSARY GOODS 

So many folks are selling things we really do not need! 
They sell us pups and spiral springs, and patent chicken 
feed. A dozen times a day or more 1 have to drop my 
pen; some chap is ringing at the door, to sell a setting 
hen. A gent of rather seedy looks came to my shack today, to 
sell me fifty-seven books — the works of Bertha Clay. And one 
is selling china eyes, one deals in pewter spoons, and one would 
sell me whisker dyes, another, musty prunes. 

1 never waddle through the woods but some one comes 
along, and tries to sell me useless goods, with tiresome dance 
and song. I'm weary of the man who yells of jimcracks gone 
to seed; how stately is the man who sells the goods men really 
need! I watch the lumberman go past, upon his useful chores, 
to sell a mariner a mast, or fit a house with doors; his boards 
and beams, of seasoned wood, for helpful arts are made; he 
does our social fabric good when he builds up his trade. 

There's nothing in the lumber store superfluous or vain; 
you do not seek that dealer's door fool doodads to obtain. And 
every time he sells a bill, improvements there will be; the coin 
he puts into his till helps the community. And when his 
goods are in demand, the better times have come, your town 
will flourish and expand, the wheels of commerce hum. 

I'm tired of buying pumpkin trees, and postholes by the 
crate, and ostrich eggs, and swarms of bees, and tinhorn real 
estate. Hereafter I shall blow my roll for articles worth while, 
a peck of lime, a load of coal, a good large lumber pile. 



THE MIXER 

1KN0W a man who deals in planks, and he has money in 
nine banks. He has a busy lumber booth, where he makes 
business hum, in sooth. And when the day of toil is o'er, 
he might go home and rest and snore, and put his feet 
upon a chair, and talk about his load of care. But when he's 
had his evening meal, and read the valued Daily Squeal, he 
says, "Methinks I'll go down town, and see what's up, or may- 
be down." 

He takes a hand in everything that makes our home town 
move and swing. If boosters hold a jamboree, this lumber 
dealer there you'll see, and he will on his hind legs stand, and 
help to boost, to beat the band. 



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Walt Mason 



If there's a wedding at the kirk, this lumber man will leave 
his work, and reach the scene with active stride, and he's the 
tirst to kiss the bride. 

When we arrange a big parade, you see this lumber man 
arrayed in all his panoply and pomp, and down the street 
he'll proudly romp. 

If we decide to lynch a gent, some agent for a patent tent, 
or one who's sold us mining shares, or double action easy 
chairs, that lumber man is right on deck, and puts the rope 
around his neck. 

I hear folks say, "That lumber chap, has put this village on 
the map. If we had twenty men like him, the town would 
sure be in the swim. He is the first man, every time, to help 
to make things hump and climb." 

The business man who hopes to win must boost the town 
he's living in. You cannot do the hermit stunt, and hope to 
travel at the front. Get next to all that's going on, mix in with 
Richard, James and John, and help along the town's affairs, 
and leave the grouches in their lairs. 



STAIRWAYS 

SOME years ago I built a house in which I settled, with 
my spouse. It was a gorgeous shack, indeed; the kind 
of house of which you read. For such a house I'd al- 
ways yearned, and so I said, "Expense be derned! 1 
want the best that coin will buy; my dwelling place must stack 
up high. I want a dwelling that will stand till I'm so old 1 
should be canned." 

1 said, "I want a splendid stair, a stairway that's beyond 
compare; the kind you read about in books, with banisters and 
window nooks." 

And so we built a noble stair, and it was surely passing fair; 
and guests who came to spend the night, when viewing it, ex- 
pressed delight, and said it surely took the cake; it was a bird, 
and no mistake. 

But when the stair was five years old its antics made my 
trilbys cold. It warped and twisted like the deuce, till half 
the steps and rails were loose, it creaked and crackled, as in 
pain, and warped and bent and warped again. It took a circus 
acrobat to climb my stairway after that. 

Then came a neighbor to my door, who'd built a hundred 
shacks or more. He viewed my stair and shed some weeps, and 
said, "That is a frost, for keeps. You'd better take it out from 



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Walt Mason 



there and get yourself a Curtis stair. The wood the Curtis peo- 
ple use will ne'er its right proportions lose; it will not wind 
around, I wist, like some dadblamed contortionist. For it is 
seasoned to a hair; there is no reckless guesswork there. 

"The Curtis trademark on a stair just means that grief 
won't travel there. You have a stairway that will last until 
your earthly woes are past, and you are playing golden lyres, 
or heaping bramstone on the fires. 

"Your warped old stairway yet will wreck some fellow's 
back or break his neck, so pull it down, I humbly beg, before 
there is a broken leg. Then get the Curtis seasoned wood, and 
have a stairway staunch and good, and you will bless me 
every day for showing you the proper way." 

And now a noble Curtis stair adds grace and comfort to my 
lair; I never find it on the blink, it doesn't warp or split or 
shrink. 



ALL THE TIME 

THIS is the burden of my rhyme: Be nice and pleasant 
all the time. Some men are only sweet and nice, when 
they desire to get the price. The lumber men at Bung- 
town hear that I intend, some time this year, to build 
a handsome Gothic shed, all up to date and painted red. 

At ordinary times these gents don't smile at me worth 
twenty cents. They pass me by and do not say, 'How is your 
liver?" or "Good day!" But since they've heard that 1 expect 
to build a shed that's all correct, a modern shed with wooden 
doors and handsome knotholes in the floors, they're so polite 
and smooth and sweet, they give me fantods in my feet. 

The\' do not win me with their grins; such work is coarse, 
and seldom wins. If men would sell their laths and lime, they 
should be pleasant all the time, and not, like some cheap can- 
didate, just when they think 'twill pay the freight. 

I'll buy the lumber for my shed, when 1 have got the coin 
ahead, from dealers who are pleasant lads e'en when they are 
not after scads. There are such dealers in our town, and no 
sane man would turn them down. I meet them nearly every 
day, and talk with them of hogs and hay, and bats and cats 
and curleycues, and ships and synagogues and shoes. 

They do not seem to care a red who sells the lumber for 
my shed; they're always pleasant and polite, they hand me 
smiles and treat me right. 

So when 1 wish to buy a plank, 1 take some pennies from 



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Walt Mason 



the bank, and cheerfully 1 blow the price with men who can't 
help being nice. 

And when the Bungtown fellows know what I have done, 
they'll droop in woe; they'll look on me with moody scorn, 
and wish 1 never had been born. Their souls can't reach the 
heights sublime: they can't be pleasant all the time. 

HOUSES SCARCE 

OFT 1 hear discordant slogans, hear the loud and sad 
lament; men are wearing out their brogans hunting 
houses they can rent. Every village, town and city 
sees the same discouraged crew; and it seems to me a 
pity that good houses are so few. 

In my native burg, Empory, 1 see women chasing round, 
and they tell the same old story — houses simply can't be found. 
And the same sad word is spoken everywhere 1 chance to roam; 
from Topeka to Hoboken folks are hunting for a home. 

When they're sick and tired of chasing, when their souls 
with woe are filled, maybe they will do some bracing; maybe 
they'll decide to build. Rents are higher now than ever, and 
the prices won't slump back, and that man is really clever who 
will build himself a shack. 

"But the cost!" 1 hear men yawping; and they put up 
thoughtless roars, for they never have been shopping at the 
modern lumber stores. Building goods today are cheaper than 
all other goods you buy; all commodities are steeper — ask the 
lumber dealer nigh. 

Monied men are often questing for gold bricks, and dern the 
price; always ready for investing in blue sky and pickled ice. 
If they'd build a lot of houses they might dwell in Easy street, 
where the catawampus browses, and the dingbat's song is sweet. 
Every time they'd build a dwelling crowds would come, and 
still increase, crying, clamoring and yelling, begging for a five- 
year lease. 

There's no better proposition than this thing of building 
homes, and the fact should find position in the plutocratic 
liomes. 

And the man with modest bundle should be renting never- 
more; he should take his wad and trundle to the lumber 
dealer's store. 

There should be a boom in building such as we have never 
seen; palaces with ornate gilding, modest homes, all painted 
green. 



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Walt Mason 



FLOORS 

THE Eskimo has floors of ice, and probably he thinks 
them nice, and strictly up to date; but if there ever 
came a thaw they'd be the worst you ever saw, and 
that's as sure as fate. The Arab has his floor of sand; 
1 have no doubt he thinks it grand, a floor beyond compare; 
but sand is fnll of bugs and ants, and they climb up a fellow's 
pants, when he sits in a chair. 

The Mexican has floors of dirt, and floors of that sort will 
not hurt, so long as weather's dry; but when there comes a 
season wet such floors are not the one best bet, which no one 
can deny. 

In olden times men built their homes with battlements and 
towers and domes, and ornaments of gold; but all the floors 
were made of stone, and they made people sigh and groan, 
they were so hard and cold. 

And then with rushes they were strewn, to make them 
warmer to the shoon, and also to the feet; and those stale 
rushes would decay; their scent would drive the folks away, 
in agonized retreat. 

It took uncounted years of toil and planning by the mid- 
night oil to dope out modern floors; the floors on which we 
dance and walk, and sing and cuss and wildly talk of hoarders 
and such bores. 

The floors on which we spend our lives, and train our kids, 
and beat our wives, are surely handsome things; be they of 
color light or dark, we proudly view them and remark, "They're 
good enough for kings." 

Your mansion might have jasper walls, the finest painting 
in its halls that artists can produce, and onyx stairs and marble 
doors, but if it had no modern floors 'twould be a poor excuse. 

Good hardwood floors make life a pome; they beautify your 
happy home as nothing else can do; your lumber dealer has the 
best; the years have given it the test that means so much to you. 

DOORS 

WHILE doing here our earthly chores, we're going in 
and out of doors; doors have a part in all we do, 
until our little trip is through; and then who knows 
what sort of door we'll enter on the other shore? 
If 1 am welcome at your shack you gladly swing the door 
clear back, and say, "Come in, you blamed old skate, and stay 



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Walt Mason 



six months, or maybe eight!" But if I sell "The Works of 
Poe," you ope the door an inch or so, and cry, "Go chase 
yourself, gadzooks! We do not want your tinhorn books!" 

Oh, doors are good for many things; they're used by peas- 
ants and by kings; the humblest hut has three or two, and pal- 
aces have quite a few. And I recall a bitter day, when I 
climbed on a dappled gray, a horse that wasn't brought up 
right; it liked to kick and buck and bite; it threw me off, in 
wanton style, then sat on me for quite a while. I was so crip- 
pled, bruised and sore, men took me home upon a door. It 
shows how useful doors can be; I always carry two or three. 

We're always viewing doors, you know; they face us every- 
where we go; on doors we knock, at doors we wait, and if 
they're handsome, smooth and straight, they strike us as a 
work of art, they're soothing to the mind and heart. But if 
they're warped and out of plumb, and cracked and cheap and 
on the bum, we think, "The owner doesn't heed how much his 
dwelling runs to seed." 

I size up people by their doors; not by the rugs upon 
their floors. 

There's nothing looks so dad-blamed punk as some cheap 
door that's warped and shrunk. 

The Curtis hardwood doors are great; they're always true 
and fine and straight; their beauty gladdens every eye, and 
years don't make that beauty fly. They're built by experts, 
and each door is planned to sell a hundred more; each one's an 
ad for all the rest, and every Curtis door's the best. 

Oh, I could write a whole lot more, but some one's rapping 
at the door. 



BUILDING A HOUSE 

I BUILT a house, erect and square, its basement touched 
the ground; and all my neighbors gathered there, and said 
it should be round. "Square houses long are out of date," 
remarked old Jabez Black, "and no one but a fossil skate 
would build him such a shack." 

"1 see your shingles are of wood," said Johnsing, with a 
grin; "you ought to know they are no good— they should be 
made of tin. Your house is sure the bummest job a man could 
find in town; I've half a mind to raise a mob, and come and 
tear it down. The porch roof has too steep a drop, it makes a 
wretched show; the basement should be built on top, the 
garret down below." 



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Walt Mason 



"You surely must have lost your head," exclaimed old Cap- 
tain Bean, "to go and paint your mansion red, with trimmings 
of pea green. A person's eyes it fairly slams; the man who 
sees that paint will think he has the James H. Jams, and he'll 
be apt to faint. If you had made it pink and blue, it would 
have hit the spot; but you have chosen such a hue as makes 
the neighbors hot." 

"I see your chimney is of brick," said Colonel Sassafras; 
"and such a bungle makes me sick — it should be built of glass. 
Glass chimneys now are all the rage in Paris and in Rome, but 
you're away behind the age, when you put up a home." 

"Upon a pivot," said Judge Ace, "it should be built, just so, 
then you could turn it round to face most all the winds that 
blow." 

They all agreed that such a shack was never built before; it 
all was wrong and out of whack, from roof to cellar door; 
except the woodwork — that was grand, and beautiful and slick : 
they saw it had the Curtis brand, and so they could not kick. 

THE GLADSOME SPIEL 

A LL Spring it rained to beat the band, and o'er the satur- 
l\ ated land, the water stood in pools; old Pluvius, who 
/ % runs the rain, it seemed, had water on the brain, and 
busted all the rules. 

The farmers had to sail in boats when they went forth to 
feed their shotes, their ostriches and cows, and when they went 
to sow their beans they had to go in submarines, they couldn't 
use their plows. 

And in the cities things were worse, and gloomy as a 
country hearse was nearly every face; men stood around in 
dripping crowds, and viewed the stretch of leaking clouds, and 
called them a disgrace. 

Contractors, when they called on Hoar, who runs the corner 
lumber store, would make an awful fuss; "this is the blinkest, 
blankest Spring! We cannot do a doggone thing! It's getting 
wuss and wuss! It keeps on raining all day long, the mud goes 
through to old Hong Kong, it will not dry till fall; unless the 
gods give us a show, out to the poorfarm we must go, our 
families and all!" 

But Hoar, the cheerful lumberman, is one who always ties 
a can to every gloomy thing; his optimism then he voiced, as 
he wrapped up a big oak joist, and tied it with a string. 

"The rain," he said, "is coming yet, and 1 admit it's pretty 



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Walt Mason 



wet, in fact it's almost damp; but you should hail it with de- 
light, and shoo your troubles out of sight, and bid your griefs 
decamp. The ground is soaked clear through, you say, down 
to the center of Cathay, and that is joyous news; it means 
good crops for sundry years, so it's a sin to sprinkle tears, or 
languish in the blues. The moisture stored in yonder soil will 
make our divers kettles boil, and bring us coin galore; you'll 
have more palaces to build because the air with rain is filled, 
so please cut out the roar." 

The man who sees the good in things, who chirps around 
and smiles and sings, and chortles by the year, not only boosts 
his private trade, but sees the ghosts of others laid — the ghosts 
of doubt and fear. 

PERSONALITY 

ONE dealer cannot understand why people needing 
planks or sand go past his door, to spend their mon 
with t'other dealers, Dadd & Son. 

His stock is just as good as Dadd's; he gives as 
much for patron's scads; why, then, do people pass his door, 
and pass him up forevermore? Perhaps he lacks the sort of 
charm that will all prejudice disarm, that makes his gladsome 
patrons shout, "1 like to deal with that old scout." 

A man may study all the tricks of commerce, trade or 
politics, may know his biz from A to Zed, and yet still fail to 
get ahead, if he has not that winning way that makes a new 
hit every day. One doctor's good at making friends; from 
door to door he blithely wends, and fills his patients up with 
pills, and cheerfully they pay his bills. This doctor's soon in 
Easy street; his motor choos along the street, he wears large 
diamonds on his tie, his life is one long piece of pie. 

Another sawbones knows full well all lore the phj'sics books 
can tell. He studied medicine in Rome, and studied it some 
more at home. He knows all corners of his game, all ailments 
of the human frame, and he could cure the hopeless guy that 
other docs give up to die. But people say, "We'd rather croak 
than have that sour-faced doctor bloke!" 

And thus it is in every line; the man who deals in coal or 
pine, the man who sells a churn or farm, should have that asset 
men call "charm." With that on tap the world goes slick, and 
people say you are a brick; they buy your hats, they buy your 
gourds, they buy your beeswax, beans or boards. And if you 
lack it they will trot to one whose manner hits the spot. 



Lumber Lyrics 
Walt Mason 



PLANTING A TREE 

ON Arbor Day I took a spade, and then a large round 
hole 1 made, and planted there a tree; and in that 
tree, in coming days, the birds will sing their rounde- 
lays; and twitter in their glee. 

I am art ancient also-ran; I am an old and feeble man, 1 
soon must hit the flume; but it's a pleasant thing to know that 
there will be that tree to show, when 1 am in the tomb. Be- 
neath its boughs the kids will play, and veterans all bent and 
gray will in its shade recline; and peradventure one will sigh, 
"I well recall the dippy guy, who planted here this pine. The 
swath he cut was very small, while he was on this mundane 
ball, but when life neared its end, this tree he planted with his 
spade, and here we're resting in its shade, and bless him as a 
friend." 

And as the long, slow years go by, perchance that stately 
tree will die; there's death for all, it seems, and men, to earn 
the needed plunk, will separate its mighty trunk, and fashion 
boards and beams. 

And one who plans to build a shack, will to the lumber 
dealer track, and purchase beam and board; and carpenters 
will straightway go, and build as fine a bungalow as mister can 
afford. The walls and roof of my good tree, will shelter human 
grief and glee, for, maybe, untold years; will echo to both sob 
and song, the laughter of the bridal throng, the plash of old 
wives' tears. 

I like to speculate this way; but now my boy comes in to 
say, ere he departs for school, "That tree you planted by the 
fence now looks like twenty-seven cents — it's dead as Cssar's 
mule." 



THE SHOPPERS 

WHEN people do their Christmas shopping, and blow 
in all their hard-earned ore, to keep the Christmas 
spirit popping, they don't call at the lumber store. 
You do not see the Christmas spieler, with purse 
ajar and eyes a-gleam, say to the cheerful lumber dealer, 
"Just wrap me up that ten-foot beam! 1 have an aunt, Pris- 
cilla Hocking, to whom I'd send a present small; that beam 
will surely fit her stocking like the paper on the wall." 
You do not hear the shopper saying, "1 want a gift for 



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Walt Mason 



Uncle Hank, so let me see you busy weighing about ten yards 
of basswood plank." 

No shoppers tighten their surcingles in lumber yards, at 
Christmas time, and buy their girls a lot of shingles, or sundry 
pecks of unslacked lime. 

A man might think the lumber dealer was off the map, and 
in the shade, without a tendril or a feeler upon the blooming 
Christmas trade. But all the year they're building houses, 
with stuflf the lumber dealer sells, in which the Christmas crowd 
carouses, and good old Santa whoops and yells. Beneath yon 
roof there's joyous laughter, that indicates good will to men; 
and every two-by-four and rafter came from the lumber 
dealer's den. The walls on which you see the holly, were fur- 
nished by the lumber man, who is, like Claus, serene and jolly, 
and does his stunt the best he can. The door at which the 
guest is greeted with kindness which should hit him hard, and 
everything that's nailed or cleated, comes from the modest 
lumber yard. 

You cannot have a Christmas frolic, with joy and laughter 
in the air, and nuts and candies — causing colic — but that the 
lumber man is there. 



THE NEW YEAR 

THE old year's gone where dead years go, the New Year 
comes across the snow, and chortles at the door; it 
seems to say, "Behold in me the smoothest year you'll 
ever see — none like me came before!" 
But years, my friends, are much the same; they stay a 
while and play their game, and then they disappear; they're 
modeled on the same old plan; success depends on Mr. Man, 
and not on any year. The finest year that ever grew will bring 
no rich rewards to you, if you're a shiftless chap; the poorest 
year that they can send will see you prosper without end, if 
you have vim and snap. 

We shouldn't wait for friendly gods to come and multiply 
our wads, or fetch us wood to burn; the new year isn't apt to 
bring to you or me a doggone thing that we don't go and earn. 
We shouldn't dream when New Year comes, or sit around and 
twirl our thumbs, and wish ourselves good cheer; 'twere better 
far to count our breaks and figure up the bad mistakes that 
cost us much last year. 

"The lumber man across the way is doing business every 



)0 



Lumber Lyrics 
Walt Mason 



day, while 1 sit here and mope; there is some reason, sure, for 
that; I'll find it, too, or eat my hat," thus muses David Dope. 
And so he rustles 'round to find why trade is falling far behind; 
that's better far, old scout, than quoting pretty New Year 
rhymes and harking to the clanging chimes that ring the old 
year out. "You bet," says David, and he grins, "this year I'll 
guard against the sins that put me in the hole; I'm bound this 
year will treat me well, so watch your Uncle David sell his 
lumber, lime and coal." 

And thus the year is good or bad according to the sort of 
lad who has it by the horns; if you are bound to win, you 
will; if not, the year your hopes will kill, and spoil your 
choicest corns. 




31 



^ilii HB;*aw^~'~wiy .:^^^t 



